Moving Circles
by Persisia
Summary: Sometimes, Motonari can't help but entertain thoughts of what might happen if he stepped outside his own world, just once.
1. Prologue: Restless

_Great Sun, grant me this wish that only you can…_

There is no sun. It is dark, save for a few lanterns lit here and there, and the stars above. The moon is out too, he thinks, but perhaps it is asleep within its cloudy blankets. He turns his face to the sky, eyes closed, and lets the wind pass him by without so much as a hello or goodbye. This is his rooftop, his own stronghold of sanctity. He's closer to the heavens from here. He knows he will never attain the celestial heights, but it doesn't stop him from dissolving into pools of emerald and amaranthine reverence at the height of his sheltering embrace.

_Help me to fell him, to lay him low in silence…_

His thoughts are once again on the pirate. He tries not to think of him, but sometimes, he can't help it. The pirate has declared a siege on his soul— no, his very being. The pirate is insignificant, but he has successfully thrust a blade between the Sun-Child's ribs, slowly twisting it day after day. He can feel his flesh ripping, his bones breaking, but his blood does not spill. No one can see the agony he suffers, the tears born of frustrated confusion that never fall. He is as cool as ever, cool as the eventide breeze caressing him comfortingly.

_Keep him far from me so I may hold him closer…_

It is a full-fledged assault on his pride and dignity. He doesn't need anyone. This he knows. He makes no secret of it, either. So why must the pirate constantly challenge this? He may go play with his own pawns anytime he wishes, but why must he insist the Sun-Child do the same? Why must he look at him in such a way? It causes him to doubt himself at the very core of his soul. He will not take that hand, not for anything. If it must be any hand, it _shall not be yours._

_I have only one desire tonight, Oh Great Sun…_

His eyes open slowly as the moon awakes from its lofty slumber, shining down on him like divinity in sweet, lurid pallor. In its light, his eyes almost glow, and he breathes slowly. He is filled with a pulsing, arcane sort of trance. He feels older than this sea, older than the persistent will of the pirate on the other side. He is scared that he isn't strong enough. He can take everything he wants, but will he have the desire to follow through if he can't control this small fear beginning to chisel away his resolve? If he can't stop thinking about those ridiculous offers of friendship… he's terrified he just might consider it. _And that must never, ever happen._

It won't happen. He _is _strong enough. There is no force in the world that can impede the sun's passage. Even the moon, he notes with satisfaction, is simply another side of the sun's power. The only thing causing his doubts is himself. He has nothing to worry about; there is nothing to threaten him. And just like that, his mind is free. He thinks over his plans for tomorrow— the training, what he plans to eat, what drills he will order his soldiers to practice— rather than any man with the moon's grace crowning his head and the ocean in his eyes. His doubts will return, but some other night. Tonight, he has spared enough thought on someone unimportant to his destiny.

_Take him swiftly so that I might get out alive._


	2. Chapter One: Routine

Mornings are far from routine, far from regular.

It's with the sun that Mōri Motonari arises, and that's just how he likes it. The morning is as crisp as any, and though he is plenty sleepy, he will not fall under again until well after dark. Such is his life, and he has grown accustomed to the minimal sleep he allows himself. A sharp mind, he thinks, is sharper still if it can handle this drastic stress. Whether this is true or not is irrelevant; if not, then Motonari is a greater tactician than he gives himself credit for.

He stands by an open window, simply watching the world begin to stir. It's _peaceful_, and that was his own doing. Others could say what they would of him, but his lands were _peaceful_. If it took a monster to create and maintain this sort of _peaceful_ atmosphere, then he would gladly remain so. It was something to be proud of, and it was all his. He was hard on his soldiers and even harder on himself, and would throw them away in a heartbeat, but this was his reward, and he found it a worthy trade. He would pay for Chugoku's continuity with his men's blood, and could anyone truly complain about that? It wasn't as though he expended them carelessly.

In war, he would not be attached to lives that would be lost.

That was how others seemed to play the game, but he could sacrifice his pawns and his rooks, his bishops, even his _queens. _And of course, he would never be the one caught in checkmate. This morning was another victory awarded to him, and tomorrow would be as well. He sighs now, and his breath is carried away like a thought. It's time to start the day.

He dresses himself, mindful of how the fabric slips along his skin; he is injured, wounded on his left forearm. It had been a slip of his guard in training, mere relaxed training. Such a thing was testament enough to how his thoughts scattered about his mind like bees and kept him from the rest he so needed, but he fervently denied that. Publicly, he made it as a risky victory tactic to share with his soldiers- he couldn't _truly_ have made such an error, after all. But within his own mind, he knew that he had a problem that needed to be handled.

He thinks about this again, the gash throbbing as clearly as the memory, and his lips press together into a fine line of irritated thought. He doesn't remember having these kinds of issues before now. But lately, a storm has been shaping the clouds. With rain on its way, he can't keep his mind in check as it shatters to the drops cascading down his soul.

Because Mōri Motonari is convinced that the sun is shifting, not literally, but there has been something remarkably lurid about the way it reaches through all his windows to caress his floors so, so covetiously. He finds himself unable to welcome the golden rays without questioning himself. Never has he had these problems, not ever, and yet here he is.

The moment he leaves his chambers, stretching luxouriously, he is confronted by a decision: should he break his fast just yet, or not? His morning was by no means a routine, and so every detail was important. Everything he did in such early hours affected what he did later on, so he made sure to weigh each choice carefully. After all, he has the time to comtemplate such things, considering the dawn was only moments ahead of him. Some might consider this unusually slow-paced of him, but that didn't matter.

He decides he is hungry.

After taking the time to enjoy the fruit so handily available, he sets out for his own training in solitude, the sweet taste still tingling on his tongue. He would make sure that he could move with this injury, painful though it was. Then he would work his army harder than he had in months. And all the while, he would be planning an invasion, for there was no better remedy for a disturbed mind than the plotting of another's demise- especially when that person happened to be the cause of his distraction. He twists viciously, his ringblade striking at nothing as it glints in the morning light. He imagines how he will cut away jagged strips and scrappy ribbons, for he will not take care as he slashes at a pirate's exposed body. It will not be tidy and beautiful, and he will not see darling tears, for the single remaining eye his foe has shall be squeezed tight in agony or run over with blood.

He can almost taste it, scarlet victory and no one to challenge him, no one to fill his mind with ugly doubts about truths he's known since before he was conceived. He's excited, so much so that he finally notices how the sun has risen high- almost midday already? That darkens his mood quickly, and maybe this is the first of the stormclouds threatening to hide the sun. He calls his army to formation, noticing how swiftly, smoothly they slide into perfect alignment. He trains them well, and though they inevitably die off, he doesn't see it as a waste. They'd have died anyway; all the better that their lives were fuel for the fires of the next wave.

It's to late afternoon, the sun already descending, that he finally releases them. They are sore, he knows; he is, too. He insists they get their rest, for he will push them even harder tomorrow and he will tolerate no disability within his ranks. He takes a meal, alone as he pleases, and immediately afterwards has a bath drawn. Then he reads, occupying his mind with someone else's tactics. (They are no match for his own, of course.) After night has long fallen, he ascends to the roof to contemplate, to continue strengthening his course. And after that, it's to bed with him.

Mornings are not generally routine, but this is certainly the way his days go for nearly half a moon, and sometimes he substitutes the reading for strategy games, or the like. For the most part, it's a drag made interesting only by the intensity of it. At first, his men were exhausted. But they got used to it, as did he. It is routine, after all, and it has been made to be a nearly mindless one. Every day, he feels closer and closer to the time of striking. But it does not arive.

This routine is broken one day when he is sent for on behalf of an unexpected visitor. No longer does he have to wait: now is his chance.


	3. Chapter Two: Visitor

When Motonari first received word of a visitor, he was surprised. When he was told who had decided to call upon him, it was even more of a shock (and as expected of him, slight annoyance.)

There is no reason for such an encounter as this, but it can very easily be made into something more than advantageous. After all, he recalls the wayward Maeda floozy to be well aquainted with the Demon of the Western Seas. So, on a formal little whim, he had a room prepared and sent to have the man brought to him; why should he be bothered to go meet his guest personally? He hadn't had word of his coming, after all.

The whole ordeal took maybe minutes, but it was a smooth and flawless operation. This was to be expected of his servants, for when things did not work properly, he was a harsh master, indeed. Only minutes after he had fired out orders like bullets did Maeda Keiji take a seat before him, a conpanionable Yumekichi perched on his shoulder.

"Haven't heard much of you lately, Mōri," the man greets with a friendly smile. Motonari's reply is one of silence, which is met with a sigh. He can't think of how to get Keiji to understand that he isn't one for small-talk- he simply wishes to get on with business. But then, Keiji probably understands that. He must, for Motonari knows that his guest is far more intelligent than he lets off.

As if on cue, the gaudy man continues. "Still not much for conversation, eh? Listen, I understand that, but you really should try to socialize more. It's not good for you to keep to yourself all the time."

Motonari narrows his eyes. If it's a reaction the vagabond was searching for, he found it. "How I conduct myself is none of your concern," replies the emerald-clad general rigidly. He has no patience for this; Keiji can tell. There is a glint in his eyes that shows that he has received the message. _Do not play with me today. _And so, the vagabond clears his throat of dust and languidity, glancing about in a nervous fashion.

"Of course, of course. So, uh... I'm guessing you didn't get my letter." Before Motonari can reply, the vagabond quickly adds, "Not that it was important or anything! I just wanted to know how things were going around here."

How considerate of him, Motonari thinks. But he does not seek consideration. He seeks far less personal things. He falls into a guarded chatter with the man, deciding to humour him, if only to satisfy him enough that he might leave this place in peace. They speak of the state of other lands- though Motonari was well aware, it was nice to know he had another card in his deck. They speak of what the future might hold for the land (or rather, Keiji speaks of it. Mōri is uninterested.), of what battles have been fought lately. Every attempt the vagabond makes to discern Motonari's own actions, however, leads to a dead end of silence. And then, Keiji hits a mark which clicks something in the tactician's mind. Without another thought, he sees his course of action. He knows what he must do. He slowly moves to his feet; he much resembles a cat in the way he moves, so gracefully, so perfectly balanced. Keiji watches; those eyes never leave the Sun-Child's form. He is expecting his answer, and in carefully layered tones, Motonari delivers it.

"Go."

The vagabond is confused and a little alarmed.

"You have seen for yourself- all is well. I have no use for you, so begone."

With that, Motonari himself takes his leave, abandoning the vagabond's trailing protests. However, one snippet, louder than thunder, reaches his ears, right through to his core. _"Wait, M__ō__ri! Just listen to me, would you? You can't keep living like this! Someday, something's going to happen to you, then who's going to be around to help you? I know even you care about..."_

The rest of the words are lost to distance, but even what he heard is enough. He is angry, and with his back turned and far from the vagabond, his blank mask shatters. How d_are_ that fool try to tell him what he can and cannot do, what he does and does not care for? How _dare_ he spout such unfounded nonsense in the presence of someone so much higher than he? There was no reason for Motonari to accept this unwarranted meeting, yet he had- and now the damage had been done. The Sun-Child paces in pre-prepared quarters until he receives word that Maeda Keiji has indeed departed. Not a moment is wasted from when the words ghost from the soldier's lips that a terribly frustrated Motonari calls together his troops once more.

And once more he runs them through rigorous drills, excruciating and long. A couple fall from the sheer intensity of it, which is of no consequence to Motonari. He will temper this anger, channel it in the proper way...

He will unleash it in full upon Chōsokabe Motochika, or the sun will fall to ash.


	4. Chapter Three: Reflection

The night is much colder than it has been.

After the vagabond's unexpected visit and the following excruciating training, Motonari's logical side violently murdered his anger, and he dismissed his troops for four days, much to their relief. Overworked pawns are useless pawns; he might as well go into battle with nothing at all at that point. Despite common knowledge, he _does_ take care of his people. He isn't a bad ruler, just a very, _very_ strict and driven military leader. While victory is for himself first, he doesn't waste what he earns. His people live in peace and his soldiers live well, if they live at all.

It just so happens to be a very bad month. So now, he has given his army four days to recover from his inhumane treatment. That may not be enough, but now he is troubled, now he is in a hurry. The parting words of Maeda Keiji weigh heavily on his mind, for it is nothing but the truth- he does not want to die alone. If he should fall, he wishes for his final words to be immortalized. So tonight, though it is cold, he consults the stars in his lamentation.

He pulls folds of fabric tighter around him to guard against the chill, and his own legs are drawn nearer to guard against himself. Should anyone see him like this, he would destroy them where they stand, for he is terribly vulnerable- but when one is bared to the heavens, there is no armor or lie that can mask them, so he figures he might as well spare himself the effort.

His chosen path is presented to him in stardust now. He has decided to once again eliminate the emotions within his heart. They are weakness, and he cannot reach his goals if he is weak. He has doubts, so he must crush them. He has fears, so he must destroy them. And the root of his discontentment is none other than Chōsokabe Motochika. The pirate has offered him friendship, shown concern. So has the vagabond Maeda Keiji, but the difference there is clear. Keiji is unattractive to Motonari in every way. Keiji does not threaten Motonari's possessions. Keiji will not impede his goals.

But Motochika is everything. He has the will and strength to carry out his own goals. He has the grace and humility to see his men eye to eye, and thus they follow with a loyalty that Motonari could never hope to inspire. He is smart, smart enough that he is on equal terms with Mōri himself, though the Sun-Child would never admit it. But most of all, he is persistent, especially in his attempts at winning Motonari over. This trait is shared between the vagabond and the pirate both, but there is something all the more threatening in the way Motochika looks at him. It's not pity or desperation or hope, not like Keiji. It's something else entirely, but there's no knowing what, exactly.

That's what terrifies Motonari. He wants to know _why the pirate looks at him in such a way._ And yet, he refuses to try and find out. He wonders now, beneath the eternal twilight skies, if the weakness he so abhors is truly in emotions... or if it lies in denying the truth and honesty of them. When he is angry, he hides it, or kindles it where no one can see. When he is sad, he vanquishes the life of the feeling. When he is happy, there is no smile. He thinks it is weakness to show emotion, so he cuts it out of his soul completely. But denying something so glaringly, painfully a part of him, now that he examines closely, seems to be more of a sign of weakness than anything.

Is he afraid to face these things? Is he afraid that he can't handle his truest feelings being betrayed? He is no stranger to betrayal, after all: he is the crowned emperor of traitorous intent. But does he kill his emotions to prevent the dispair of heartbreak?

Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't.

He sighs, resting his forehead on his kneecaps. It _is_ cold, but there is no wind, and he is thankful for that. He whispers his questions and the stars give no answer. He curses this doubt, and after some minutes of that, he simply gives up. He can't contend with these thoughts tonight. Maybe tomorrow will lend clarity to his disturbed mind.


End file.
